


Final Fantasy 7 Ficlets

by EchoThruTheWoods



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wonder how certain things in the game's original story came about? Like where did Hojo get a gun? And how did Hojo and Lucrecia decide she should bear the child for their project? Also a little AU in here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Shot

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of short works that I've posted on Tumblr under the name Razziecat. These are the result of wondering about odds and ends in the game, questions that come to me, or speculation about how something might have occurred "off stage" as it were.

Reno tracked down Veld Dragoon in the darkest corner of the roughest bar in town. It wasn’t hard; Reno had a nose for trouble. Today’s news smelled ripe as a rotting corpse.  
  
“Hey, Boss.“  
  
The rickety wooden chair creaked under his weight. He drew a manila envelope from under his jacket, and laid it on the table.  
  
“Forensics are back.” He touched the slight bump in the envelope with a light fingertip. “The bullet’s a match,” he added, more for form’s sake than necessity. The twitch of a muscle along Veld’s jaw, the deep line incised between his brows, confirmed what Reno’s sixth sense had told him.  
  
Veld already knew.  
  
“Thank you.” Veld didn’t open the envelope, instead lifting his glass, draining it in one long swallow. He’d been at it awhile; the bottle beside him was down to maybe four fingers’ worth of whiskey.  
  
“So.” Reno leaned toward him. “When are we taking him in? Say the word.”  
  
“Can’t.”  
  
Reno blinked. “Why the hell not? His gun, his bullet!”  
  
Veld folded his hands on the table, lean metal fingers twining with blunt, scarred fingers of flesh and bone. “Because,” he said, “that gun was reported stolen a week before Valentine was declared missing.”  
  
“But it was Valentine’s DNA on the bullet! You mean I broke into that locker for nothing? You’re gonna let him skate?” Reno shook his head. “That ain’t the Dragoon I know.” 

Veld sighed. “It won’t hold up. His name’s not on that locker. His prints weren’t on the bullet. We’ve got DNA but no proof of death.”  
  
“There’s no statute on murder.”  
  
“No body,” said Veld, with cold precision, “no murder.”  
  
He picked up the bottle, upended it over his glass, letting the whiskey fill it to the brim, the last drops gleaming golden in the dim light.  
  
“Well, ain’t that just great.” Reno sagged against the back of the chair, thumped a fist on the scratched, sticky table-top. “It’s not right! I mean, who gave that crazy old buzzard a gun and taught him to shoot, anyway?”  
  
Veld brought the glass with its quivering contents up to his lips, and said softly, “I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised a bit of the text since it was posted on Tumblr.  
> Sept 2016: Changed the name of the story from Finding Truth at the Bottom of a Glass (I never really liked that name but it took me forever to find a better one; what can I say, I'm a slow bloomer :) )


	2. Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wondered what kind of conversation Lucrecia and Hojo had that led them to conclude she should bear the baby destined to become the Jenova-fueled super warrior, and whose idea it really was.

The last thing Lucrecia expected to hear in the lab was Hojo swearing a proverbial blue streak. 

He wasn’t a man who used vulgar language casually. In point of fact, he’d never done it in her presence, although he had an acid tongue. His creative bent for insults had been known to send lab assistants running to the dictionary after apologizing for their transgressions.

Today, he stuck with the classics. “Fucking assholes!” was followed by a string of Wutainese phrases that made Lucrecia wince. She didn’t need to translate any of it to get the gist. It had to be something serious.

“What’s happened?”

His face was a thundercloud. “They’re cutting our funding by half. HALF!” He looked at the phone as though it was something nasty that had crawled out of a test tube. His hand twitched; she watched him struggle with the urge to throw the phone across the room. A deep breath in, out, and he dropped the phone on his desk with a rattle of plastic. “I cannot work under these conditions!”

She suppressed a smile. Extreme anger always gave his words the barest edge of an accent, one that he’d worked hard to overcome. To her ears it was attractive, but she knew better than to say so. “Why the cut?”

“We’re not producing results fast enough. Of course, I explained this is not something that happens overnight, but no one wants to hear that!” Fists clenched, he raised both hands, and looked up at the ceiling as though appealing to the gods. “How am I supposed to bring in a quality surrogate without MONEY?”

“Hojo, we talked about this.” She touched his shoulder, turned him to face her. “Going outside of the company for a surrogate will generate too much red tape. I’ll do it myself.”

“We also talked about the risks. There is…some danger. A potential for miscarriage, other complications. There’s still so much we don’t know about the Jenova cells, their effects on the surrogate, on the fetus…”

“That’s what makes it so important that we go forward! How else will we learn? Come on, Hojo, admit I’m right.”

“Lu--”

“Please, don’t argue with me. You know this is the solution. It will work. I trust you.”

He shook his head. “That’s not the point. You’re already involved in this project up to your eyeballs. How can you be objective about it if you’re carrying the subject of the experiment? Especially when the hormones kick in.”

“I’m going to kick YOU if you don’t stop saying that! You’ve never questioned my objectivity before. Credit me with some professionalism, please!”

“Lucrecia, once done, there’s no going back.”

“This is my project as much as yours. I’m committed to seeing it through, and if this is what it takes, then I’m ready and willing to do it.”

Wheels turned behind his eyes, thoughts flashing and sparking with feverish intensity. He was adding it all up, she felt it like lightning in the air. There was only one conclusion he could reasonably come to, only one sum of all the disparate parts that made sense.

He nodded slowly. “All right. If you’re sure.”

She smiled, exhilarated by the lure of the unknown. “Of course I’m sure.”


	3. Alchemy of the Double Helix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the birth of Sephiroth. Slightly AU as canon says Lu never even got to see him, but pfff... ;)

The second-to-last contraction was the one that made her see stars.   
  
“Push, Dr. Crescent! You’re almost there!”  
  
It wasn’t like she had a choice. She wasn’t in control. She was intellect and reason; this was earth and instinct, ancient and irresistible. One panting breath, a taste of blood and antiseptic, and the giant’s fist that gripped her guts wrung her inside out.  
  
Stars burst behind her eyelids, flashing red and silver. She shouted in triumph as the pain crested and broke, and her burden dropped into waiting hands, leaving her light as air.   
  
The placenta followed, with much less fanfare. The midwife tended to her while an assistant examined the product of her long hours of effort. At last the midwife, smiling, presented to her a small, warm bundle wrapped in a blanket.  
  
“Here he is, my dear: A healthy, beautiful son.”  
  
“Beautiful” was subjective: A pale, slightly bruised face, the eyes just opening, dark against the bright lights, and a crown of translucent fuzz on the not-quite-round head. Tiny feet and hands were more blue than pink, but everything else seemed just as it should be.   
  
The result of nine months’ nurturing, he was a beginning, the next step on humanity’s long ascent to its apex. There had been missteps, tragedy, moments of self-doubt; they had overcome all of it, she and her partner in this miraculous undertaking. They were near to completion now.  
  
She, who abhorred superstition, yet felt it in her bones, the rightness of prophecy fulfilled, of a myth come to life. This child’s strengths would be many: Physical perfection, brilliance, charisma, a quality of leadership bordering on the divine.  
  
It was all written in blood, in his parentage and the esoteric chemical compounds so painstakingly created in the lab. She’d taken the gift chance had offered, secured the DNA that would ensure success and bring their long labor to fruition.

How proud her mentor would be! She had built upon his work, taken it to places he had glimpsed but had not lived to explore. He would never know the extent of his contribution to this, the culmination of his lifelong dream.  
  
It was time to rest. She let the midwife take the child, settled her aching body comfortably, and let her mind wander to more mundane concerns. She’d never done much with the nursery; perhaps now she’d give in, this once, to a whim.   
  
Not for this child the ordinary pastels, the stereotypical shades of blue. For him, the stars, the cosmos: Silver and black, with a touch of red.  
  
In remembrance, and in anticipation of the glory to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Secured the DNA" - but from who? ;)


	4. Wedding Hell Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suppose Sephiroth never died, and a certain rebel caught his eye.....This is very AU, except for one teeny, tiny detail ;)

The SOLDIER squad formed up at the doors to the chapel, each man in full uniform, a sword on his hip or at his back. Spectators clustered behind them, and everyone’s eyes were on the closed doors.  
  
Hojo found himself in the front row of the crowd, next to a slim, familiar man in a dark suit and a neatly-trimmed, dark bronze beard. Well, this was awkward.  
  
He’d known it was inevitable. They were related now, after a fashion. “Director,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “Lovely day for a wedding.”  
  
“Hojo,” came the equally-dry reply. Veld nodded to the woman at Hojo’s side. “Lucrecia.”  
  
“Wasn’t it a beautiful ceremony?” Lucrecia dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed hankie. “Veld, you look very handsome today.” She glanced at her husband, shaking her head. “Not everyone balks at wearing a suit.”  
  
Hojo scowled and glanced at his watch. “So, Veld, how did you get your daughter to agree to let you give her away?”  
  
“I didn’t,” said Veld. “We argued it to a draw, and when the shouting was over she agreed to be ‘escorted’ down the aisle, provided the whole of AVALANCHE took part in the procession.”

Well, that explained the twenty-odd members of the entourage, and a more ill-matched group of attendants Hojo had never seen. He’d kept his mouth shut, though. The groom’s family was handily outnumbered, and besides that, every member of the wedding party was openly carrying.   
  
There came a rustle of movement at the chapel doors, and the SOLDIER CO barked, “Detail! PRE-SENT! ARMS!”  
  
As one, every man lifted his blade high into the air, forming a gleaming arch of steel. The doors opened, and the newly-married couple stepped out into the sunshine, resplendent in silver and black.  
  
Pride lifted Hojo’s head and shoulders, pulling him out of his habitual slouch. Even without armor, Sephiroth was magnificent. Garbed in a black suit subtly designed to mimic the cut of his uniform, his hair a silver waterfall down his back, he glittered like the morning star. Even his eyes shone, blue as a highland lake. No trace of any other color showed through; the lenses, painstakingly ground and polished by hand, were undetectable. Hojo sighed in satisfaction.  
  
A brilliant smile graced Sephiroth’s face, almost too bright to look upon. Lucrecia squeezed Hojo’s arm. “Oh, he looks so happy!”   
  
Hojo grunted assent. Beside her new husband, Elfe was a drab little mouse, but it wouldn’t do to say so in her father’s hearing. At least she’d opted for a dress, although it was a soft silver-gray, knee-length with a split skirt, rather than some fluffy white confection. Leave it to the rebel to flout tradition wherever possible! As the couple moved down the path beneath the arch of swords, Elfe strode forward as though marching into battle. Sephiroth would have to work to keep up with her, rather than she with him.   
  
Modern values. What had happened to the old days? By chance, his eyes met Veld’s, and a spark of rueful concurrence passed between them. Veld shrugged, and the moment was gone.

“Don’t be so gloomy!” Lucrecia tugged at Hojo. “Come on, the reception is starting!”  
  
“Drinks,” Veld murmured, turning away. Well, things were looking up! Hojo allowed his wife to tow him toward the refreshments.   
  
A few hours later, he wandered down the stone steps of the mansion, following them deep into the basement rooms that no one ever visited. With the key he kept always in his pocket, he let himself into the room farthest from the door. He flicked on the old battery-powered lantern, pulled up a chair, and sat, propping his feet up on top of the dusty coffin.   
  
He might be imagining the low growl like a roll of distant thunder, or the cold rattling of the heavy chains that bound the casket.   
  
He raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Hell of a party going on upstairs, Valentine.” He sipped champagne. “Too bad you’re indisposed.”


	5. Not Your Mama's Valenwind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was inspired by a drawing by Crimson-Sun, depicting a very cautious-looking Cid Highwind, with Vincent who has just transformed (mostly) back to his human form. Cid looks quite compassionate, but what is he really thinking?

“Bat out of hell” was just a phrase. Cid didn’t believe in hell, until one of its monsters made a crash landing at his feet.  
  
Couldn’t fault the gunman on his marksmanship. He was a crack shot, never missed. Fast and deadly as a taipan. When a bunch of beasts out of a madman’s nightmare surrounded Cid’s little group of misfits, Valentine saved their butts. 

Not with his gun. No, he’d gone flash-bang instead, turning into some weird hybrid thing with wings and horns, eyes like bonfires in the night. Beat the shit out of critters that would have had them all for lunch, tearing them into little crunchy bits. The shrieks, and the slushy sound of flesh ripped from living bones, ricocheted off the inside of Cid’s skull.  
  
After, for a long, long moment, Valentine hovered over their heads. Sniper’s instincts, death on wings, tracking their every move. Cid gripped his glaive with both hands, knowing he couldn’t match the speed or the strength or the appetite for blood. And waited.  
  
The monster shot out of the sky, collapsing into a tangle of long limbs, black hair streaming, one leathery wing raised behind his bent back, the other sprawled beside him. Human again, more or less. A young man with an angel’s face, skin so pale it was nearly translucent where it wasn’t patched with gore.  
  
Glaive poised to strike, Cid approached. His companions, battle-ragged and swaying on their feet, gathered behind him, fists and weapons raised.  
  
Valentine shuddered, coughed, and spat blood. Mostly red, sheened with the tell-tale oily gleam of mako. Blood dripped from his hair, pooling in the dirt.  
  
Cid laid his glaive aside and crouched in front of him, not quite daring to touch. “Valentine?”

A wet sniff. “Yes.” An affirmation, but less than reassuring. This slender, shivering man had just slaughtered a couple dozen fanged mutants with talons as long as Cid’s arm. Tonight, while the exhausted party slept, who would stand watch against the monster in their midst?  
  
Resolution soured Cid’s stomach.  He was the old man of the party, the level-headed, practical one. Someone had to be.     
  
Cid waved Strife, Lockhart and the others aside. “Give him some space, will ya?” They backed off, settling a few yards away to tend their own injuries.  
  
Cid scooted a little closer. Red eyes watched him from under a matted fringe of bloody hair. Cid put a cautious hand on a shoulder. Clammy skin, muscles like tempered steel. “This happen a lot?”  
  
“Often enough.”  
  
“Looks rough. Can you control it?”  
  
“Sometimes. Not always.”  
  
“Sorry to hear that.” Six inches between them. Ugly decisions were best carried out at once. Cid shifted, his hand slowly sliding down toward his boot.  “Real sorry.”  
  
“Highwind.” The voice had dropped another octave. “Look down.”

“Wha--?” Cid blinked. Golden claws rested on his torso, razor tips piercing his thick canvas shirt. He hadn’t even seen the gauntleted hand move. “Oh.”  
  
“You can’t kill me, and I’ve had enough of pain. Keep your knife hidden. I won’t harm anyone in our party. This I swear.”  
  
People said Cid was reckless. Today, it might be true. He held his ground, while sweat, or blood, trickled down his belly. “Gimme an oath I can bank on, Valentine.”

“I swear on my own soul, if I still have one,” Valentine said, “and on my hope of heaven. Will that suffice, Captain?”  
  
“That’ll do.” Cid managed a wry grin. “Nothing personal. No offense.”  
  
“None taken.” Valentine sighed. “I appreciate the offer--more than you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not to imply that Crimson-Sun intended any particular interpretation of the drawing which inspired this fic.


	6. My Eyes Are Up Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So why the hell DOES Scarlet dress like that, anyway?

Hojo passed Scarlet in the hall as he made his way to the elevator. He spared her only the barest passing glance--emphasis on bare--but that was enough to get an eyeful.   
  
He gave a disdainful sniff as he mashed the Down button. “When is that woman going to stop dressing like a whore?”  
  
The elevator bell chimed. That had to be the reason he didn’t hear footsteps behind him. A hand smacked the back of his head and sent him stumbling into the waiting car.   
  
“I heard that, you Mesozoic quack!” Scarlet shoved him against the elevator wall as the doors shut. She twined his tie around her hand and pulled it tight. Oh gods, she had a stronger grip than he’d have guessed.  
  
“I graduated at the top of my class!” She leaned in close. “I’ve been published in four professional journals.” Another twist, nearly cutting off his air. “I have eight patents. Interns literally fight to be assigned to my department.” One last yank; he gagged, and she let him go, pushing him aside. “I have a lifetime contract with Shinra. I can dress in leather and chains if I want to and They. Can’t. Say. Shit.”  
  
Hell, that image would haunt him for weeks! He sputtered, gulping a welcome breath, shaking himself as he straightened his abused tie. “All right, damn it, I apologize! But with all of that to boast of, it makes even less sense. So, Miss West, answer me honestly: Why?”  
  
She smirked. “Because assholes like you always under-estimate me. Why shouldn’t I take advantage of stupidity? Besides, it’s not like you’ve ever objected. Far from it.”  
  
He scowled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying.”  
  
“Oh, come off it, professor! Everyone knows about you and the Costa beach bunnies!” The car stopped, and she exited, snickering, while he stood staring after her.   
  
As soon as she was out of sight, he checked his coat pocket. Yes, his plane ticket was still tucked neatly away, along with a tube of sunscreen.   
  
It was a lucky guess. She couldn’t possibly have seen them.


	7. Turk's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the Tumblr "self-insert" week, May 8-11, 2016. What's a new Turk's first day like?

The first day of a new job is always a pain. Working for Shinra? Agony. Photos, fingerprints, physical. Skeevy cold-eyed doc with colder hands. Needles: Blood draw, tetanus shot. Should I worry? No time for questions! Tailored uniform with knife-edge creases down the legs, stiff new leather shoes. Me, already sweating under the blinding white, button-down shirt.

Sign this, initial that. Here’s your ID, don’t lose it; ten gil charge to replace it. Bet there’s a story behind THAT rule.

“You done? C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” The skinny redhead led the way down the hall toward an unmarked door. Reno looked pretty young to be a professional bad-ass. Well, except for his eyes. Probably another story there.

He pushed the door open on a roomful of people. Almost a dozen, counting the bearded guy in the corner, guzzling coffee from a steaming mug. Dark roast with a bitter-chocolate tang. It smelled divine.

Two of the women had disassembled guns laid out on their desks, as well as solvent and cleaning rods. I do respect people who take proper care of their equipment. Everybody seemed to be talking at once. The guy with the mug looked toward the door, and silence fell.

“Yo, everybody, new recruit,” said Reno, hooking a thumb at me.

“Yay, another girl!” A petite blond waved. “I’m Elena. What’s your name?”

“Alice.”

Reno snorted. “You believe it? What kinda name’s that for a Turk?”

Like I wasn’t nervous enough. “Um, well, Mom named me for her favorite singer.”

“Some hippie chick folk-singer?”

“Actually it was a guy who wore leather, a lot of black eye make-up, and a snake.”

Reno’s young/old eyes widened. “Rude!” He turned to a tall, bald man. “You never told me your Ma could sing!”

The bald guy just curled his lip. He probably rolled his eyes, but who could tell behind the mirrored lenses? He tilted his head, one lens framing a reverse image of the bearded man’s scarred face.

Reno spun slowly on one heel, pointing at people. “Veld, Rude, Elena, Shotgun, Two Guns, Katana, Rod, Cissnei, Legend, Tseng. We got a few out on jobs. Oh, yeah, and Valentine’s in the doghouse.”

“Someone’s being punished?”

“Nah, he’s at the guard-hound kennel with the Big Boss.” Reno grabbed a book off a desk. “Here’s the rest of your paperwork. You gotta read it and sign off.”

It opened up like a map, accordion folds cascading to the floor. I began reading, in growing confusion. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s your contract. Lists all the rules, regs, perks and benefits.”

The text was single-spaced, purple ink. In Comic Sans. With accompanying full-color illustrations. “Things Turks Aren’t Allowed To Do?” 

I skimmed down the list. “Right. Uh-huh. Well, that’s only sensible. Wait, who would even DO that…?”

There were grunts, snickers, and one long-suffering sigh. I flipped a page, and the middle of the book opened out into an eight-sided gatefold. My face burned hot as a ghost pepper. “Okay, no way that’s not Photo-Shopped.” Grumbles, and a quickly-hushed protest.

I read further. “Funeral expenses if necessary? Where’ve I heard that before?”

Reno shrugged. “Well, you know, the classics never go out of style.” He hitched one hip onto the corner of a desk, and winked at the bearded guy.

I got it. “Ha ha, very funny. What the hell–I’ll sign it.” I pulled out a pen, signed the last page at the bottom, and handed the whole thing back to Reno. He tossed it onto the desk and held up a forefinger.

“One last test. The Director’s in this room. Who is it?”

I scanned the group, passing over the suave Legend, the imposing Rude, the intense Tseng and impassive Shotgun, and pointed to the corner, at the silent, bearded man with eyes like flint and steel. “Him.”

He had a grin like a hungry shark. “What makes you think so?”

“No offense, sir, but with the scars, the way all the energy in the room revolves around you, and your taste in coffee…well, it couldn’t be anybody else.”

Veld raised his mug in a salute. “Welcome to the Turks, Alice.”


	8. Forget-Me-Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Mother's Day tale for Sephiroth.

When Sephiroth was five, Nurse took him outside to the kitchen garden to play. He named all the colors: Sun was yellow, grass was green, sky was blue. Little flowers dotted the grass, tiny yellow suns. Yellow was his favorite. He picked them, a big bunch, as many as he could carry. When play was over, he took them to his room.

He had a special place, on the sill behind the curtain. Nurse had seen a spider back there once, and stayed away ever since. Sephiroth put the flowers there. They were warm from his hands, and a little droopy, but he thought Mama wouldn’t mind. Her picture smiled, just the same as always.

When Sephiroth was eight, he was allowed to walk in Mr. Shinra’s garden. He could look, but not touch. All of the flowers were fancy, and cost a lot of money. There were roses, and gardenias, and irises, and in a special glass house, orchids with petals like moth wings, so pale he felt sure they would glow in the dark. All along the red brick garden path, small blue flowers grew, each one with a tiny yellow eye in the center.

“Nothing special,” the gardener said with a sniff, “but Mrs. Shinra likes them.”

When he cut roses for bouquets, he let Sephiroth take a few of the smaller yellow ones. He really wanted some of the little blue flowers, too, but the gardener said they weren’t good for cutting, so he took the roses to Mama instead. He put them a in a glass of water and set it carefully on the sill. Mama smiled.

When Sephiroth was fifteen, he went to Wutai in the service of Shinra. It was an ugly, violent time, but he did his best, and President Shinra was pleased. A ceremony was held, and medals presented, and Sephiroth was allowed to choose among hundreds of gifts given as tribute. There were swords, crafted by houses ancient in the art; but no blade as beautiful and deadly as his Masamune. He was bored, and tired, and past ready to go home, until he saw the flowers.

In Wutai, flowers were a language unto themselves. One of President Shinra’s Turks had taught Sephiroth the traditional meanings. He walked among the many pots and cuttings, choosing: For his father, yellow daffodils. Respect. And for Mama, yellow camellias. Longing.

When Sephiroth was twenty-five, he had little time for gardens. There were always missions, and training, and medical tests. He was Sephiroth, champion of Shinra, hero of the people. When he marched on parade with the troops, spectators showered him with flowers in Shinra’s red and white, all the blooms that anyone could want. He let them lay. Neither red nor white were special to him.

He still kept his secret place, with its small, faded photo, its bits and bobs of memorabilia collected over the years: A dried rose, an earring, a picture book of flowers, arranged neatly on the sill behind the curtain.

Someone knocked on his door. “General? Your transport to Nibelheim is ready to go.”

“Coming.” Sephiroth shook out the long, yellow scarf, imagining that he could still smell the fragrance of a faint perfume. He folded the cloth with military precision and laid it on the sill, and set a bowl of fresh, yellow roses on top.

Mama smiled.


	9. Ladies Who Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine being one of only a few women who work for Shinra. It's good to know who your real friends are.

Lucrecia met Scarlet in the dining room of Nibelheim’s only public house. Relief eased a little of the chronic tension in her stomach; Scarlet had come, after all. Lucrecia’s irrational fear that she wouldn’t recognize her friend, after so long away from Midgar, faded like morning mist. Scarlet stood out like a hothouse flower, a golden lily against the aged black oak paneling.

“There you are, Lu!” Scarlet’s arms opened, reaching. From behind Lucrecia an ever-present shadow slipped neatly between the two women, tall, dark and imposing.

Lucrecia’s fingers brushed his arm. “It’s all right, Vincent. It’s perfectly safe.” He froze, and stepped aside with fluid grace.

“As you wish.” He nodded at Scarlet, cold and barely cordial. “Miss West.” His eyes met Lucrecia’s, considerably warmer. “I’ll be at the bar.” Alcohol was no part of it; he’d be within sight. Lucrecia sighed. Sometimes she wished he’d take his duties a little less seriously.

“Go. Get yourself something to eat.” She made shooing motions with her hands. “I’ll be fine!”

He retreated, far enough to be discreet, close enough to save her life, with appropriate heroics, if Scarlet attacked her with a butter knife. Turks! Rolling her eyes, Lucrecia led the way to a table. The landlord turned up, and managed not to sneer as he took Scarlet’s order for a gin and tonic. Beer was his specialty. He’d probably have to dust off a century-old bottle of gin.

“Mineral water, please,” Lucrecia said. He brought their drinks and left them to peruse the menus. Scarlet made a face as Lucrecia drank. Lucrecia laughed. “I’m five months pregnant, Letty. Mineral water is a healthier choice.”

“Better you than me!” 

The landlord returned to take their orders. Lucrecia recommended a local dish, and Scarlet, evidently living dangerously, shrugged and agreed.

When the man had gone, Lucrecia set her drink aside and leaned toward Scarlet. “Did you bring them?”

“Of course.” Scarlet opened her sleek leather tote bag and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in plastic, passing it to Lucrecia. “Slippery elm, chamomile, ginger and peppermint, as requested.”

“Letty, you’re a lifesaver! Since Ifalna left, I can’t seem to duplicate her special tea.” She tucked the herbs into her coat pocket. “Spending half the morning throwing up isn’t conducive to working, I can tell you. But Hojo thinks old home remedies are useless superstition.”

“No problem, honey. Let me know if you need more.” Scarlet glanced over her shoulder. “So what’s with the watchdog? Who does Shinra think is going to harm you out here?”

“It’s just a precaution.”

“Against what? Peasants with pitchforks?” Scarlet waved a hand at their surroundings. “How can you stand this medieval old ruin? I bet they roll up the sidewalks at dusk!”

“It’s not that bad. It’s quiet, and we can get a lot of work done, which is why we’re here, after all. Hojo prefers it over Midgar. He says you can’t move up there without tripping over regulations and red tape.”

“Don’t I know it! How is the odd bird, anyway? Are you happy here?”

Lucrecia smiled. It felt a little stiff, but then, she hadn’t had much practice at it lately. “Of course I am. He’s well. We’re both quite well.” She laid a protective hand on her belly. “All three of us, actually. Yes. We’re fine.”

“Uh huh.” Scarlet studied her, blue eyes sharp as a flensing knife. She sipped her drink, eyeing the dark, slim silhouette of Vincent as he sat at the bar, watching the two women. “Well, maybe it’s not so bad after all, being stuck here in the back of beyond, with a handsome bodyguard at your side.”

“Oh. Um. Is he? I never noticed. He’s just a Turk.”

Scarlet smirked. “Does he have a really big gun?”

“Letty!” Lucrecia cooled her sudden flush with a gulp of ice water, taking refuge in the distraction. Scarlet had always been too perceptive. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Oh, don’t be prim. I know how Turks are. I’ve dallied with one or two myself. In fact, I’ve had my eye on one for a while. Next time I come up for a visit, we can compare notes.”

“You’re awful!” Lucrecia kept her eyes on the table, resolutely refusing to look at Vincent. She didn’t have to look. His gaze was a physical thing, warming her even at a distance like a welcoming embrace.

Their food arrived, the savory smell of baked trout, fresh from mountain streams, capturing Scarlet’s attention. Lucrecia kept the conversation light as they ate, asking about mutual friends, or about Scarlet’s latest project in weapons development. She could escape without going any further down the dangerous path, surely.

Perhaps not. Over coffee, Scarlet caught her eye. “Look, Lu, this has all got to be pretty stressful. A baby–not just any baby, but a special one–don’t give me that look, I’m not stupid. A secret project that Shinra’s spending millions on. A husband you never bargained for when you signed on. I know! But that?” Scarlet gestured with her spoon toward Vincent. “That is a disaster in the making.”

Lucrecia mustered indignation from somewhere, lifting her chin. “It’s not like that!”

“Of course it is. Not that I blame you. He’s hot, if you like them lean and leggy. And those eyes…they remind me of someone.”

Lucrecia’s heart jumped. “Who?”

“Never mind.” Scarlet shook her head. “It’s not important. Just be careful, Lu. Call me if you need anything. We Shinra women have to stick together.”

“It will be all right, Letty.” It had to be. Hojo knew what he was doing, and Lucrecia had her old mentor’s blessing, she knew she did; and Vincent would watch over her and keep her from harm. 

She smiled again, and it came easier this time. “Don’t worry! Everything will work out just fine.”


	10. Beware of Turks Bearing Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to "Wedding Hell Blues". Elfe and Sephiroth are new parents, and friends have gathered to celebrate the baby's name day...including one unexpected guest.

Sephiroth and Elfe’s daughter received her name on the wings of a storm. 

Family and friends gathered in her honor at her grandmother’s house. Veld arrived at the party as forked lightning split the sky, thunder rattling the windows.  
  
Lucrecia’s arms tightened around the baby. “Oh, I hope that’s not an omen!”  
  
“It’s a promise,” Elfe said. “She’s going to kick ass and take names.” She smoothed the baby’s pale gossamer hair. “Aren’t you, Ingrid?”  
  
“Pretty name.” Veld placed his gift on the table piled high with name-day offerings. Oh gods, he was a grandfather now, and wouldn’t that take some getting used to? Elfe accepted a brief embrace, and that was progress; time was when she’d as soon slug him as hug him.  
  
“It means hero’s daughter.” She glanced over her shoulder at her husband, surrounded by AVALANCHE, and deep in a discussion of last night’s kendo competition.  
  
“Good choice, then.” Veld smiled a greeting at Lucrecia. A quick scan of the room picked out familiar faces, but one was missing. “Where’s Hojo?”

“Working, of course!” Lucrecia rolled her eyes. “He promised to be back in time for the baby’s name-day, but it looks like the storm front’s keeping him in Nibelheim.”  
  
“He’ll be sorry he missed it, I’m sure.”  
  
Veld let Lucrecia place the baby in his arms, awkward at first, relaxing as he remembered the art of holding an infant. Dark eyes in a heart-shaped face regarded him with wary curiosity.  
  
“You’ve got an unusual pedigree, child.” Soldiers and scientists, rebels and Turks. What a mélange! Gods grant that he never failed her the way he’d failed her mother.

Later, Veld took a glass of chilled white wine, while Elfe extracted Sephiroth from his clique and sat him by her side for the presentation of the gifts. Twenty-some years ago, it had been Veld, his wife, and baby Elfe--Felicia, then. If only her mother had lived to take part now! Veld shut that thought away, along with other regrets. The dead were dead; they didn’t return.  
  
Ingrid lay in her cradle, happily gumming a stuffed Moogle toy, while ribbons and wrapping paper were scattered, and presents admired. The first one proved to be a hand-made chocobo-down quilt in bright primary shades. Elfe spread it across her lap. “Cloud, this is marvelous! I didn’t know you could do needle-work.”  
  
“Winters are long in Nibelheim,” Cloud said, grinning. “You have to do something creative to combat cabin fever.”  
  
Tifa’s gift was a companion to Cloud’s: An herbal pillow, small enough to be safely kept in a baby’s crib. Elfe held it to her nose. “It smells lovely! What’s in it?”  
  
“Chamomile and hops,” Tifa said. “To help her sleep.”

Yuffie’s gift turned out to be materia, surprising no one: A Mastered Heal, because, as Yuffie said, “Hey, you never know what kids might get into!”  
  
Next, a slim gold chain bearing three gold beads, from Barret and Marlene. “Three for luck, to start her off,” said Barret. “One new one each year, until she’s twenty-one.”  
  
Last was Veld’s gift. Elfe smiled. “Oh, books! Fairy tales.” Her eyes misted as she paged through the three small volumes. Good memories? That smile was all the thanks Veld needed. Once upon a time…  
  
He rose to refresh his drink, just as thunder crashed and rolled overhead. Rain hit hard, dimming the late afternoon light. The scent of ozone and wet earth prickled his nose.  
  
“Looks like Ingrid’s paternal grandfather isn’t going to make it,” Veld remarked.  
  
“He sends his regrets.”  
  
Veld reacted to the smoky voice and tall, shadowed figure before recognition hit him. He blocked the path to the cradle, stopping the intruder clad in black leather and ragged crimson, and only then did his brain catch up. Veld’s prosthetic hand shook, fingers spread flat against the man’s chest.  
  
“Gods of Gaia. Is it…Valentine?”

The apparition inclined his head. Wild black hair, ice-white skin, blood-red eyes in an impossibly young face, elegant bones honed sharp by something dark and predatory. “Veld.”  
  
Sephiroth had risen, a welcome presence at Veld’s back. AVALANCHE moved, taking up defensive positions to left and right. Veld trusted that someone had by now slipped Ingrid out of her cradle and into safety. “Who is this?” said Sephiroth.  
  
“My old partner. Thirty years gone.” Veld took in every line of Valentine’s body, wraith-thin and garbed in clothing both antique and viscerally disturbing. Gold covered his left arm from elbow to fingertips, ending in draconic talons. “Where the hell have you been?”  
  
The fine lips twisted. “Hell, indeed.”

“Where is my husband?” Lucrecia’s voice, raw iron with a razor edge. “Why are you here?”  
  
Valentine’s fiery glance barely acknowledged her. “He’s…indisposed. I’ve brought a gift for my…for the baby.”  
  
He moved, so swift that Veld’s eyes couldn’t follow, stepping around Veld, one long arm outstretched. A small white object lay on his gloved palm. He offered it to Elfe, who stood beside Sephiroth.  
  
She didn’t hesitate. “It’s a rattle.” She held it up for all to see, shaking it gently. The soft clink and clatter sounded to Veld like the chuckling of crows.  
  
He took the rattle, examining it. Hand-carved, smoothed and polished, the whole of it hard and cool to the touch. But not true white. More like old ivory, or…bone colored.  
  
Chilled, he looked up, meeting Valentine’s eyes. “What is this?”  
  
“It’s an oath fulfilled.” Valentine’s mouth curled into a shape that wasn‘t a smile. “It means ‘never again.’”  
  
“Vincent--”  
  
“Later.” One lean finger touched Veld’s lips. “Perhaps.”  
  
He turned away, his midnight hair hanging thick and tangled, except for one long, plaited tail pinned to the red band encircling his head. Wind at the door tossed the black braid, stormlight catching in silver threads.

Sephiroth shut and locked the door. The silence and shock that gripped the room broke, but Veld shook off the questions.  
  
“Lucrecia.” He took her arm. “Come with me. We need to talk.”

 


	11. Head, Hands, Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Crimson-Sun wanted to know what happened to Hojo (see previous chapter)

Veld approached Shinra Manor from the south, avoiding the main road up the mountain. A stand of black oak trees marked the estate boundary, conveniently screening him from sight. He slipped through the formal gardens at the rear of the house, and on to the old library in the east wing.

Vincent would be watching the front door. Veld preferred to scope things out before that inevitable confrontation.

Third window from the left: Faulty latch. He eased it open, drew aside the heavy dark drapes. Stared at the back of a bookcase, blocking his way in.

He could push it to one side, but if it fell, the noise would alert Vincent and anyone else on the premises. Assuming any of the staff remained. He wouldn‘t bet on it. So, on to the kitchen garden.

Once magnificent with fruit trees and herbs, the garden had diminished to one small cold frame beside a mound of recently-turned earth. The pantry door, almost invisible in the lee of the wall,  yielded to Veld’s lock-pick. He risked a small light. A broken chair and a pile of scrap wood made a minor obstacle. He pushed past them, paused to get his bearings.

Silence and shadows. An antique iron stove brooded in one corner, cold. The massive oak table centering the room held only a single, broad-bladed knife, stained dark.

“Dirty tools left lying?” Veld murmured. “I taught you better than that, Valentine.”

Vincent was neither stupid nor careless. The knife pointed toward the door across the room, opened on a narrow stairway. It led, Veld recalled, to the basement.

Too obvious. He explored the ground floor first, floorboards creaking softly as he walked. A sigh at the very edge of hearing stirred the heavy air; the back of his neck prickled. He refused to turn and look.

Dust whitened the old-fashioned furniture in the sitting room and the formal dining room. Little of the house was in use. Only the office showed signs of recent occupation: Leather briefcase on the desk, cloth jacket draped over the back of the chair. An open notebook, its leaves filled with an esoteric shorthand in a bold black scrawl.

He took the bait, deciphering page after page of a private journal dated over thirty years ago. Part of his mind admired the brutal efficiency and sheer creativity of the experiments described, even as cold sweat crawled down his spine.

The subject of the experiments was identified only by an initial, but it was enough. This was more than a piece of the puzzle; it was the key to the mystery. He’d been led to this point from the moment he’d arrived at the house.

He turned back to the hall. In a corner, light glinted. He bent for a closer look.

Eyeglasses, wire frame twisted askew.

Nerves taut, he returned to the kitchen, to find the basement door now shut. A length of heavy steel chain hung from the knob, broken links trailing on the floor. He gathered it up, stuffing it into his pocket, and opened the door. Cold air wafted up the dimly-lit stairs, tasting of iron and copper, and the sharp, oily bite of mako. He went down the stairs, since that was what Vincent wanted.

Shinra Manor boasted several sub-levels. The first one held the labs, specimen cages, and mako tubes. He checked the cages first: Empty. Should he be relieved, or worried? Moving on, he found the mako tubes bubbling quietly, glowing softly in the dark. That left the labs, at the darkest end of the hall.

He flipped the light switch in the first one. Gods of Gaia! He backed out, suppressing the urge to vomit. Now he knew the source of the raw-meat stench. Was there any use in looking further?

In point of fact, there was. He had a promise to keep, no body, and no rogue Turk. Veld Dragoon did not leave a job unfinished. The thought of checking the rest of the labs made his stomach churn. He was too old for this shit.

In the second lab, no gore, still no bodies, nothing but long-idle equipment hung with shaggy cobwebs. He moved on, and that was when he noted the rusty-brown footprints–long, narrow, tapering to pointed tips–leading down the hall to the lab farthest from the stairs.

“Goddamn lunatic games,” he muttered, following.

Once more, he hit a switch, unsurprised at what the light revealed: Vincent Valentine, all black leather and ragged cloak, tangled hair framing ember-red eyes in a face untouched by time. He leaned against a steel worktable, arms crossed, gold talons tapping.

“I don’t play games, Veld.”

“Then what do you call all of this?”

“I call it justice,” Vincent hissed. “Payback.” He moved with unnatural speed, pinning Veld to the wall. “You let me disappear. You and everyone I knew went on with your lives, and forgot about me. Thirty years, Veld!” The grip of his gold-clad fingers tightened around Veld’s throat, just short of pain. Veld could still breathe, still speak.

“We thought you were dead.”

“I was.” Vincent’s fingers tightened a fraction more. “I am.” Abruptly, before Veld’s air ran out, he let go and backed away. “And yet I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault. I don’t even blame Lucrecia…much.” His eyes flamed, and he snarled, canine teeth catching the light. “Hojo. It was all Hojo!”

The lines of his body blurred, going dark, gaining height and bulk. His face flickered, one moment a beast’s muzzle filled with dripping fangs, the next a parody of grinning madness, all teeth and staring eyes. Adrenaline sparked a burst of energy to the materia in Veld’s metal arm, but before he could release it, Vincent melted back into his own human shape.

“I was more merciful than he,” Vincent said. “I let him run. Let him try to escape. I gave him the night, the dark of the moon and her shadows to hide in. The last thing he heard was the howling of wolves.” He smiled, eyes half-hooded. “I am what he made me, and that’s what destroyed him in the end. As a scientist, I’m sure he appreciated the irony.”

“You could,” said Veld, against his better judgment, “be charged with murder.”

“Go ahead. If you think you can hold me. If you think anyone cares.”

“What am I supposed to tell his wife?”

“Oh, I’ve already sent her a message,” said Vincent, at the worktable again. “And not only her. There’s another with a right to know. In fact, it should be–”

Veld’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out, seeing two messages flashing.

Vincent smirked. “Timing is everything.”

Veld listened to both messages, one delivered with cold, military precision, and the other shaking with horror. He listened twice to make sure he understood. When Veld looked up, Vincent had shifted so that he no longer blocked what stood on the table.

“Did you know that mako makes an excellent preservative?” Vincent turned the wide glass jar, watching the contents spin lazily in the green liquid.

Veld swallowed bile. “Why…?”

“I suffered hell’s own torture under these hands. It’s only fair.”

“And…the ‘message’ you sent to his son?”

“Hojo was only his father in the intellectual sense! It’s an average-sized brain, by the way.”

“And Lucrecia?”

“She chose his heart over mine.” Vincent smiled, a deeply disturbing sight. “Now it’s hers in fact as well as metaphor.”

Veld closed his eyes. “Gods damn you, Valentine.”

“Yes,” said Vincent. “I believe they have.”


	12. Many Happy Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hojo is a stick in the mud, mostly, and there's cake. Late birthday fic for Lucrecia. Initially I wanted to write a story from her point of view, but Hojo kept nagging me to tell it from his POV instead, the pushy bastard.

Hojo found three things in his lab that he couldn’t abide: A Turk, a crowd, and enough pink balloons to float an airship.  
  
Perhaps “crowd” was an exaggeration. Three lab assistants, one fellow scientist, and a bodyguard hardly made an invading horde, did it? One should always aim for accuracy.   
  
“What is this intrusion?”   
  
Lucrecia turned toward him, smiling. “It was a surprise! For my birthday!”   
  
“I see. Well, that explains the tiara.”  
  
Lucrecia reached up to adjust the sparkling silver ornament on her head. “Everyone’s a star on their special day, Hojo!”  
  
Were they? The thought had never occurred to him. His birthday was just another date on the calendar. More than once it had escaped his notice entirely. This fuss and bother meant an interruption of his plans for the day.  
  
“Doctor Crescent, these…decorations…are compromising the integrity of the lab.” He scowled at the flotilla of balloons overhead. Pink was a such a gooey, insipid color. Appropriate only for silly teenage girls, not mature, educated adults.  
  
Lucrecia hand-waved his concern. “It will be fine. Everything sensitive to contamination is still locked away, and we’ll clean up thoroughly before we bring it out, won‘t we?” The assistants, eyeing Hojo and shuffling about, nodded vigorously, murmuring a chorus of “Yes, Doctor Crescent, Professor Hojo, sir!”   
  
Lucrecia swooped down on him, taking him by the arm and drawing him into the group. “Don’t be a party pooper! Come see the cake!”  
  
“You’ve brought food in here? Really, Doctor, this is completely irregular!” There, on his main lab table (which was covered by a pink paper tablecloth), stood a stemmed crystal cake plate surrounded by bunches of fresh mountain daisies and greenery. Good gods, what if there were insects in those leaves? They could be dealing with an infestation by the end of the day!  
  
“Here, look,” Lucrecia said, pulling him closer to the table, “isn’t this the prettiest cake you’ve ever seen? Three layers, with strawberry-custard filling and butter-cream icing! My favorite!”  
  
“Refined carbohydrates, mostly sugar,” he sniffed, “certainly nothing nutritious.” That sort of thing would have to stop, once their project was fully underway. He would not risk the health of his subject with junk food.  
  
“Oh, pish,” said Lucrecia. “We deserve a treat after all these months of work. Let’s light the candles. And don’t you say a word about live flame in the lab!”  
  
A ring of nine pink candles, one or two stuck a bit crookedly in the icing, encircled a mound of crushed strawberries atop the cake. Too few to represent Lucrecia’s actual age, of course, but then, this whole thing was nonsense.  
  
“Allow me.” The Turk, perpetual thorn in Hojo’s side, leaned forward with a gold-cased lighter. He glanced at Lucrecia, a tentative smile on his lips, and with quick, efficient motions lit each of the candles. “Go ahead, Doctor Crescent. Make a wish?” A rosy flush colored his face. The glow of candle flame, probably.   
  
Make a wish! Superstition! Hojo schooled himself to patience as Lucrecia, laughing, screwed up her eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. Too much to hope for that she wish for something practical like increased funding or better equipment. But then, wishes were claptrap. One achieved one’s goals only through hard work, determination and tenacity.  
  
“I’m ready!” Lucrecia opened her eyes, pursed her lips, and blew out the candle flames in a rush, looking ridiculously pleased with herself.   
  
“You did it all with one breath,” one of the assistants piped up. “That means you get your wish!”  
  
A childish fantasy. Hojo rolled his eyes. At that moment his gaze crossed the Turk’s. Naked longing clashed with disdain, and resentment hissed from between Hojo’s teeth. What was this boy, this common assassin, thinking just now? Did he, would he, dare--?  
  
“Come on, Hojo, share a piece of cake with me!” A paper plate was pushed into his hands; he took it by reflex, too distracted by simmering anger to protest. The wedge of white cake, dripping with berries and custard, smelled sickeningly sweet. Lucrecia used a pink plastic fork to snatch a bite. She popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes. “Oh, Vincent, it‘s delicious! Thank you!”  
  
That did it. Hojo gently captured her hand, took the fork, and scooped a lump of cake into his own mouth, eyes locked with Lucrecia’s. There, now, THAT was a blush. Ha!   
  
The Turk would no longer meet his eyes, which suited Hojo just fine. The arrogant punk needed to be brought down a peg or two, learn to respect boundaries and keep his proper place.  
  
Lucrecia gave slices of cake to each of the assistants. Whatever the Turk was sulking about, he didn’t let it keep him from claiming a piece for himself. Well, no matter. The fool would think twice before over-reaching again.  
  
The party wound down in short order, cake and decorations tidied away quickly enough to suit even Hojo’s exacting standards. Even the loathsome balloons were removed, much to his relief. Lucrecia kept the tiara, looking like a queen in a lab coat as she shooed away the assistants and her now-subdued bodyguard.  
  
“Well, back to work, I suppose!” she sighed.  
  
Finally! Hojo cleared his throat. “One moment, Doctor Crescent. I have something--well, come over here.” He turned to the lab refrigerator, where biological samples that needed to stay cool were kept, and took out a small glass vial, its sides opaque with condensation.  
  
His hand trembled slightly as he passed the vial to Lucrecia. How strange that he should suddenly be flustered like this. He was a scientist, not some ignorant rube!  
  
Lucrecia turned the vial, peering at the translucent green liquid inside. It cast an iridescent glow, veiling her face in crystalline light. “Hojo! Is this…?”  
  
He straightened his shoulders. “Yes. It’s the beginning of our ultimate success. A distillate of Jenova cells, suspended in mako. You might call it essence of the Ancients.”   
  
She examined it critically, as though she could measure its purity by eyesight alone. “It’s stable?”  
  
“It is. I performed every test multiple times.”  
  
“So that’s why you’ve been working late every night! I thought you were avoiding me!”  
  
“Nothing of the sort.” Damn it, this was unaccountably awkward, but he must forge ahead. Would he let a simple thug of a Turk upstage him? “I wanted to have it ready to present to you today. As a gift.”  
  
The smile that bloomed on her face made every sleepless night worthwhile. “Oh, Hojo, that’s so sweet! Gaia, I can’t believe it’s ready. All that work, contained in this small vessel.”   
  
It was impressive, if he did say so himself. Thousands of years had passed since the last Cetra had died, and he, Hojo, had revived the cells of the only specimen they’d ever found. Her cells had proved far more resilient than he’d dared to hope, and combined with mako, with all its wondrous properties…well, what couldn’t they accomplish? Future generations would hold their names in awe.  
  
This would be a coup of science, the like of which the world had never seen.  
  
Lucrecia twirled the vial in her fingers, throwing shards of light like a kaleidoscope. “Well, now that we’ve got the means…” She glanced up at him, eyes crinkling, mouth shaping a teasing curve. “We’d better get on with the next step of the, um….procedure.”  
  
Blood rushed to his face, and quickly left for parts farther south. “Here and now?”   
  
Laughing, she took his hand. “No time like the present!”  
  
Her excitement was contagious, and he’d earned it fairly, hadn’t he? Nothing so pedestrian as flowers and sweets, or cheap decorations, his gift spoke of true dedication. Not to an ideal, but to something unique--a tangible miracle.  
  
He had a room nearby, a bed made up for those nights when he needed to stay close to a delicate experiment. How appropriate, to consummate the union of intellect and passion here, where it would all come to dazzling fruition.  
  
They left the silver tiara on the lab table, its glitter dulled in the pale morning light.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet was also posted on Tumblr under the name Razziecat.


	13. Something Old, Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU: Elfe's wedding to Sephiroth is coming up soon, but certain parts of her trousseau are lacking. Never fear! Scarlet to the rescue!

Scarlet showed up at Elfe’s front door when the sun had barely cleared the horizon.  
  
“Wake up, sweetie! We’re burning daylight!”  
  
Blinking, Elfe stood in the doorway in her baggy t-shirt and sleep shorts. “What time is it?”  
  
Scarlet jingled her car keys. “It’s time to get your butt out of that rag-bag ensemble - honestly, do you even look in a mirror? - and go get you something nice for the big day.” She winked. “And the even bigger night to follow.”  
  
“Um.” Elfe blushed. It wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about that. Just…not at eight o’clock in the morning. “Can’t it wait?”  
  
Scarlet snorted. “Honey, your wedding is in three weeks! I promised to get you outfitted and we’ve put it off long enough.”  
  
“What about breakfast?”  
  
“We’ll grab a bite at a café. Now go!” Scarlet made shooing motions at her. “Get changed, there’s a good girl!”

An hour later, fortified by tea and scones, Elfe accompanied Scarlet down a street she’d never been to before. Strolling shoppers passed them, mostly women, each one stylishly attired, exuding the scent of money. Elfe had never followed fashion, but even she recognized the exclusive names on the glittering storefronts. What was she even doing here? A slender blond carrying at least a dozen shopping bags stepped out of a store, gave her a wink and a smirk, and hurried past. Wait, was that Rufus Shinra?  
  
Scarlet swept her into a shop decorated in shades of rose and pale peach. Elfe’s boots sank ankle-deep into the plush carpeting. How did Scarlet manage this in heels? 

Looking around, Elfe blinked. Every mannequin she saw wore something made of lace, ribbons and little else. There wasn’t enough fabric on any one of them to keep a mouse warm.  
  
A sleek saleswoman in silk and pearls extended a welcoming hand. “Good to see you again, Ms. West! How may I be of service today?”  
  
Scarlet pushed Elfe forward. “It’s an emergency, Dahlia. She needs wedding and honeymoon gear, stat.”

The woman swept her gaze over Elfe’s cargo pants and sweatshirt. Her smile took on a gleam that Elfe had only ever seen on soldiers about to attack. That, she knew how to handle, but Scarlet had made her leave her sword at home.  
  
“Well, then,” the saleswoman said. “I do love a challenge!” She whipped out a measuring tape and pounced. Before Elfe knew what was happening, she found herself standing before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, being laced into a cream satin corset. Surprisingly, she could still breathe when the woman was done.  
  
“Good Gaia.” She stared at her reflection. “Where’d these boobs come from?”  
  
“Never underestimate the power of engineering,” said Dahlia. “This will make your dress look smashing. Now then, for the evening, we have some alluring choices.”  
  
She spread out a selection of wispy panties, thigh-high stockings, and embroidered garters. Elfe’s face heated. “I can’t wear these! I’ve seen more substantial cobwebs!”  
  
Scarlet snickered. “Oh, don’t worry, you won’t be wearing them for long!”  
  
“Then what’s the point?”  
  
Scarlet put an arm around Elfe’s shoulders. “My dear, do you understand the principle of priming a gun?”  
  
“Of course I do! The idea is to ignite the main explosive charge--Oh. Um. Yes. Got it.”

“Then get these, too. Trust me. You won’t regret it.”  
  
Three weeks later, she knew that Scarlet had been right. All of her uncertainty melted away under Sephiroth’s loving gaze. The day was a whirlwind of promises, laughter and tears, amid the embrace of family and friends. She had nothing to fear from the night.  
  
And it was rather amusing when Genesis caught her bouquet.


End file.
